


You Saw but You Closed an Eye

by timidcat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9985313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidcat/pseuds/timidcat
Summary: Sherlock should have known that John would snap again. In reality he read the signs, he saw the red flags but he chose to be blind.This is my first fic, constructive criticism is appreciated.





	

_All this does not mean that I’m not still basically pissed off with you. I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then._

 

That raging fire was what drew him in in the first place. Liquid rage just bubbling beneath the surface, he was suppression incarnate; a volcano waiting to erupt.

They wasted no time with the wedding, it was a small ceremony set in a secluded chapel. He was by no means a religious man, quite the opposite; but he complied anyway. Something about ‘being traditional’ John had said. And something about it just felt so right, like it shouldn’t be done any other way, sacred.

It really was the best day of his life, the him from five years ago would have sneered at the prospect and wasn’t that the point? John had changed him so much. He had opened up worlds to explore, helped him see the beauty in ordinary things. Ordinary, that’s what he wanted to be. All those things ordinary people did: having friends, relationships, raising kids, co-existing in domestic bliss and he could also do with some crime solving on the side. He yearned for it with every fiber of his being.

Saying that ‘I do’ had him feeling like he was on cloud nine and he didn’t realize he was crying until sweet John gently brushed a tear from his cheek. Dear Watson, who was previously standing soldier-like was now cradling his hands with the utmost delicacy. The priest’s mumbling became distant as he lost himself in the ocean blue eyes in front of him. When they kissed it was like being in the midst of a star exploding, the big bang: as such was the case with most of their kisses. John was gleaming with pink spotting his cheeks but it was probably wasn’t comparable to his own face which felt boiling hot. They faced the audience whose clapping had previously been white noise. His lense latched on to Mrs Hudson crying tears of joy while holding onto a flailing Rosie. So was the case with Molly who was clapping enthusiastically with her boyfriend Solomon. She was happy for him and he was happy for her.

Harry didn’t attend the wedding, she was a lost cause. John had told him little about his childhood, by his behavior he could tell it wasn’t a very happy one. Mother left, dad was a drunkard and a homophobe among other things. He left it to rest, after all what was the point of having those painful conversations when they were both well aware of the facts?

That fiery rage didn’t dissipate after the wedding, not one bit. What had attracted him like a magnet was not desirable anymore. Granted there had been moments when John had just snapped, but those were extraordinary circumstances that most people couldn’t even begin to imagine. And besides, he had apologized and he could tell he was wrecked with guilt and shame for losing control and he had whole heartedly forgiven him. He thought it was all behind them and truly, Mary and Moriarty became nothing more than distant memories crumbling into dust with every month that passed. It was easy to forget when there was a child to raise.

It would cause a few fleeting moments of worry in him, during nights of passion; when John would bite, grip too hard or thrust too forcefully and he would take notice of the pained yelp and kiss it better.

Of course they had to baby proof the flat, by the time they were done there was not one sharp edge in the flat. That also meant no knives or pistols around, no experiments in the kitchen and no clutter. He was more than fine with that, he would do anything to contribute to Rosie’s upbringing.

A few remaining journalists immediately took note of the changes. Why is John Watson back at 221B? Why is there a little girl living there? Of course they made their own assumptions, they weren’t idiots bless them. John was getting pestered whenever he went out.  When he would see him come back from work with his face red and his nostrils flared he would just leave him be and not mention that he knew of the glasses of Whiskey he was sneaking. Everybody needs a drink sometimes, besides; it was nothing excessive.

Finally John requested that he be the stay at home dad and saying he was relieved was an understatement. His brain was rotting, being cooped up inside all day watching the Teletubbies with Rosie. He took out his frustrations on Dora The Explorer by coming up with twenty different ways that she could just die. Even though he would never touch any stimulants again besides coffee his mind needed work.

John’s ‘friends’ from his rugby team unsurprisingly didn’t approve of his choice of companion, as they found out at one get together. John had cried when they went back home. He tried to comfort him, saying that they actually disliked him from the start. John didn’t like that, he yelled at him, giving him a venomous look that he hadn’t seen since Culverton’s morgue. A look that said “don’t say another word or I will fuck you up Mr William Sherlock Scott Watson.” John had pushed him up against the wall that night and he had gone to sleep on the couch. It was his fault after all, being insensitive and telling him to just ignore it.

It just went further downhill when Rosie began school. John was always the one to pick her up and every time the other parents would whisper behind his back. Mocking him, mocking his intimacy with the great Sherlock Holmes, forever denying that it had been Sherlock Watson for some time. They pitied Rosie, that’s what angered him the most when John would come home clearly disturbed. He didn’t try to be smart, he just let his lover vent and take the left over whiskey from the previous night. Other methods of venting included more passionate and intimate ones. He was used to making sacrifices, to tolerating a bit of pain but one night marked a long pause in their sex life.

They were both at the peak of pleasure, he knew how people acted during something as intense as that and he knew. John was sensitive but some things are not OK. He bit down on his collar bone, hard enough to draw blood. It immediately ended their session.

John had apologized, he was more sorry than he had ever seen him. But the damage was done and he put his pyjamas back on.

A few months into Rosie’s first year at school he got a call from the principle. She was swearing at her classmates. “Rosie sweetie, you need to promise me to never say those words again.”

“But Pa says them all the time!” she replied with pure innocence.

“What, when?” he inquired.

“All the time when you’re not around.”

“OK well don’t say them again, they are very rude, bad words.”

Of course she had got them from John, of course.

 Hours turned into days. Unfortunately he missed the sports day, the school play and two parents’ evenings. It wasn’t his fault there were serial killers to catch. Rosie understood, John didn’t. Every time he would get frustrated and every time he would say sorry and give him chocolate and roses in the morning.

 He couldn’t make it on the third parents’ evening and he deserved all the shame that time.

“What was it this time?” John huffed. “Huh?!” he raged. There were storm clouds in his eyes and they bore thunderous consequences. “What was so important that you couldn’t make it? You do know that the teachers, the other parents, the principle; they’ve never even seen you! You’re giving them every reason to think you’re an irresponsible twat!”

“You’re right.” He croaked.

“Excuse me?” John had a dangerously soft tone. “You’re right. It wasn’t anything serious, just a car accident.” He admitted this with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed like a sulking child. “Seriously?” John all but whispered. “Yes.”

John had his back turned with his hands on his hips. Sherlock was about to let out a string of apologies but he hadn’t even raised his head when a fist collided with his face. He reeled back, startled. He tentatively opened his eyes and unclasped his hands from his face to see blood on his palm.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” John said breathlessly seeing the gravity of what he had done. Sherlock just stood there shocked, hand back to gripping his face, not moving a muscle save for the tear that trickled down his cheek. John clearly disturbed covered his face in shame and started sobbing. “You have no idea what it’s like Sherlock. I have to be there every time listening to the others. They mock us, they say we’re horrible, irresponsible parents.” He looked back up at him, the shame now directed at Sherlock not himself. “But they’re right you know. I mean what kind of parent are you?”

It shouldn’t have taken a punch to open his eyes. He was observant in many ways but blind in others. He whiped the blood from his sleeve and croaked: “I’m sorry John, I know it was stupid and thoughtless. I’ll try harder from now on I promise.”

“OK, I’m sorry too. Come, let me take care of that.” He motioned to the kitchen but Sherlock was already heading to the bathroom. “No I’ll take care of it myself.”

They switched roles again. John went back to his job at the clinic and he looked after Rosie and saw that he wouldn’t miss another parents’ evening or sports day or concert ever again. But when one problem is solved another arises.

It was always transparent to Sherlock that John was frustrated. It had been about two years since they last did the deed. He wanted none of it. He didn’t want to go through his chest being scratched hard enough to draw blood, to have his hair pulled roughly or to be bitten on the neck.  But that was part of the duty to being a good spouse. John had sacrificed so much for him, it was only time he repaid the favor.

They booked a table at Angelo’s and sent Rosie to Mycroft’s who always got on well with her surprisingly. They finished early to have an hour to themselves at home.

He had years of experience and the strength required to throw him off but he couldn’t will himself to do it. It was his doing really. He had no right to deny to John what was rightfully his when he’d been “such a tease” as he expertly put it. Thoughts of Rosie clawed at his brain but they were drowned out by the fact that John was a dedicated father; invested in his child’s upbringing unlike him. He was the one that needed fixing.

He made excuses to visit Mycroft and Molly. “It’s for a case” he would say and John would be none the wiser. Obviously it was always while Rosie was at school, was she even safe with John? He wouldn’t reveal anything to Molly, it was only to get away from home. They chatted about ordinary things, he’d learned to be content with that long ago. She had divorced from Solomon the poor dear.

However, he should have known it was impossible to hide anything from Mycroft.

“Sit down Sherlock, we have much to discuss.” his brother said in a stern voice. Sherlock complied and took sat opposite his desk in the dismal, grey office.

“Oh yes how’s your diet going? You seem to have abandoned it since you let Gabe into your life.” he quipped.

“It’s Greg” he snarled but didn't deviate from the issue, which Sherlock clearly wanted. “A little bird sent me some concerning footage regarding you and John.”

Instantly alarm bells rang in Sherlock's mind. “Oh no. Don’t tell me someone’s put cameras in the flat again!”

“No, Culverton’s hospital; the morgue." Mycroft said with a grave face which begged an explanation from his brother.

“Ah yes that-“

“You disgrace the family name Sherlock! You insult yourself! You couldn’t have not seen it coming there must have been signs. Ordinary people can predict this, but then….that’s what you are isn’t it? You’re ordinary, and ordinary people close an eye.”

“It’s not what you think, he apologized he’s never done anything since.”

“But he has, you’re so transparent and you don’t even realize it.” Mycroft took out a remote and played the said footage on a screen in the upper corner of the room. 

“Look at yourself Sherlock. He beat you to a pulp, I can tell he’s hurt you again. Do the right thing, leave him and take Rosie with you.” Sherlock wasn't looking at the screen, he didn't need to. The crunches and splats were enough to illustrate what was happening.

“No.”

“Are you mad? He’ll snap again. He'll hurt you again and he’ll hurt Rosie too, if he hasn’t already.”

“I won’t let Rosie grow up without her father.”

Mycroft was now baring his teeth and had his nostrils flared.

“Call me an idiot but I think that’s much better than experiencing spinal trauma. I care for my niece Sherlock and so help me if I hear she’s been hurt I will have her forcefully removed!" With a more softened and pitiful expression he exclaimed "I was right, he really has made you worse than ever.”

John seemed to grow grumpier with every passing month. The long days at the clinic were doing a number on him such that not even the dinners at Angelo’s could cheer him up for long. Of course he wouldn’t admit that anything was wrong.

Then he began going out more with some new friends from the clinic. They were perfectly accepting of their partnership he said. Truly he was glad that he was going out with genuine friends but he still wasn’t his old self. He came home later and later each time so that Rosie didn’t even see her father on some days.

It was with hesitation that he went out on a case on one of John’s off days. When he returned he immediately noticed that something was wrong. Scratches on the keyhole and the surrounding wood, as if a blind person had tried to unlock the door. He went inside to shelter from the rain and there, wet footprints and tiny puddles littered the hallway and the staircase. Forgot his umbrella did he? Something else, the trail of footprints weren’t from a man in good condition. He was either fatigued, high or drunk.

He dashed upstairs and threw open the door to their flat. Nothing seemed out of place, until “daddy!”. A pained wail broke out. Rosie had the covers up to her chin trying to hide her distressed face from the world. “It really hurts” she cried. Upon seeing the blood on he forehead he hastily dashed to get John’s medkit.

He made Rosie sit up in bed while he cleaned her forehead, “it’s going to sting a little, why don’t you distract yourself? Tell me what happened.” “It’s my fault, I really wanted to watch TV”

“And you threw a tantrum” he guessed. It was her punishment for swearing at school the other day, she thought she could get John to give in. “He was acting strange, like he was really really tired, he almost fell” she hissed in pain as he applied surgical spirit. “Then he yelled at me and pushed me and my head hit the mantle.” Sherlock restrained the temptation to ball his fists and instead finished by putting a big Hello Kitty plaster on her forehead. He told her to rest and silently closed the door, he was going to have a stern talking to with ‘Papa’. They couldn’t continue like this, it was the last straw. To think that he tolerated similar situations in the past sickened him. Or it might have been caused by the suffocating smell of whiskey that wafted out from the bedroom door which was ominously wide open.

Mycroft kept his word and John complied without any trouble. Outside 221B a black car was waiting with John’s luggage, destination: Birmingham. Mycroft was leaning on his cane at the entrance glaring daggers at John limping down the stairs. His brother, dressed in some simple jeans and a button down shirt had his face contorted with grief, like he’d just lost a loved one. “Swiftly now, don’t make a fuss out of it.” He said and strided to the car.

Sherlock left the entrance door ajar for some privacy. The hallway had seen so many happy memories. Memories of laughter and breathlessness after a case. “Will you allow visits at least?” John asked, his eyes vividly pleading. “No more than once a month and only if she wants to.” He declared coldly. Despite his frosty tone and blank expression Sherlock was blinking back tears but John was already sniveling. “I’m sorry” he said softly, in a way that he knew was pointless. He put his hand to his face and started sobbing. It was a sound that made his guts twist and turn. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, if you were you wouldn’t keep doing it.” Sherlock said as a matter of fact. ”Sometimes I just snap, I don’t really mean it.”

“Oh please” Sherlock huffed in disbelief. With many years worth of pain and frustration in his tone he said “I have sacrificed so much for you. True you did the same yet you threw it all away so it was worth nothing. I have tolerated things from you that are unacceptable and frankly” he paused with hesitation. “I’m grateful that you took out your anger on Rosie. No really, thank you for snapping me out of the lie that I’ve been living for the past eight years. You’re not the John Watson I fell in love with all those years ago.”

John was no longer crying and he hardened up, becoming the soldier persona that was always there to cushion his fall. “You had the chance to go back to therapy but you didn’t. You convinced yourself that you didn’t need help all while you were hurting me over and over and over again and you didn’t even realize because you’re too absorbed in your own petty feelings.”

John didn’t have a comeback for that. No more excuses and no more weaseling his way out of conflict.

“You’re just like your father.” He hissed. That made John tighten his jaw at first but then he relaxed. His muscles turned to jello at the sad truth of what he had become. The car’s honking signaled that their many years together had come to an end. They both had their hands clasped behind their backs, both of them wishing that to hold the other’s hand one last time. “Goodbye Holmes” he said icily. “Goodbye Watson” Sherlock responded, _and may God help whoever gets caught up in the oncoming storm that is John Watson._

Over the years John would come visit on Christmas time, Easter and Rosie’s birthday. She wouldn’t talk much to him and how anxious she’d be to get away from his gaze. However Sherlock would find it the most difficult. He wouldn’t admit it but he missed his Boswell terribly, even after everything that happened. He missed waking up with a warm body next to him every morning. He missed it when John had his good days at the clinic and would kiss him on his return. He missed the weekends when they would sit in their respective chairs, John feeding Rosie and shedding light on a case that had been bothering him for ages. John was the final piece in his marvelous jigsaw puzzle of a brain and without him he was lost.

Just when he thought he had no more tears left to cry they got the diagnosis. It wasn’t fair, life wasn’t fair. You can coddle your children, they can eat well and keep their body in top physical condition. They’ll steer clear of alcohol, drugs and cigarettes only to die of a brain tumor or an aneurysm or a hole in the heart that’s been there since birth; or in this case cancer. Cancer is boring. Who was it that said that?

First he cried, then he put up a brave face; deluded himself into thinking that she was strong and could get better. He finally faced the grim reality when she refused any more chemotherapy, she was tired of fighting. It didn’t surprise him that on her deathbed she found it in her heart to forgive John for his past sins.

They stayed behind at the funeral. “I’ve been going to therapy you know” John announced. “You want to try again, start over” Sherlock guessed as he kept his gaze on Rosie’s tombstone. “If you’ll have me” he replied. Sherlock finally turned to look him in the eye and he saw a broken man who had lost everything, like himself. “I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since we broke up. And if you won’t take my word for it you can deduce yourself.”

Truly there was no signs of alcohol consumption, but alas nine years was a long time. So instead he preoccupied himself on identifying how John had aged. His hair had all gone grey and there were more wrinkles on his face but other than that he was the same rigid soldier he met all those years ago.

What did he have to lose by letting him into his life again anyway? There was no one else that would get hurt by his presence. They had a happy beginning and a painful middle but maybe their end didn’t have to be so miserable.

He fished out the spare key of 221B from his coat pocket and plopped it in the other’s lap. He saw John beam and take it in his hand “You’re beautiful you know, you haven’t aged a bit.” There was the great detective’s weakness, he missed being wanted, he missed John. He sat up from his bench, “come home, I’ll make you some tea” he offered while smiling a sad smile. They were just a few inches apart before they privately told themselves to sod it and hugged.

John cried silent, bittersweet tears. He cursed himself for taking it all for granted as he buried himself into the soft, greying curls. The hug almost overwhelmed Sherlock. It had been so long since he felt the warmth of another person, too long since he had hugged someone so intimately. The only way it could work was if it was just the two of them Nobody else to disrupt them, just the two of them against the rest of the world.

 

 


End file.
